lifton.

"Yes, ready, quite ready--for Greenwood."

She spoke in a tone which had lost its liquid music, and with a wintry
smile that fled over the ashy face, lending the features no light, no
warmth.

He tried to divert her mind by calling attention to various things of
interest, but the utter exhaustion of her position and the monosyllabic
character of her replies soon discouraged him. Both felt relieved when the
carriage stopped before the studio, and as he led her up the steps, he said
affectionately--

"I am afraid my prescription has not cured your head."

"No, sir; but I thank you most sincerely for the kind effort you have made
to relieve me. I shall be better to-morrow. Good-bye till then."

"Stay, my child. Come into the studio, and let me read something light and
pleasant to you."

"Not for the universe! The sight of a book would give me brain fever, I
verily believe."

She tried unavailingly to shake off his hand.

"Why do you shrink from me, my pupil?"

"Because I am sick, weary; and you watch me so that I get restless and
nervous. Do let me go! I want to sleep."

An impatient stamp emphasized the words, and, as he relaxed his clasp of
her fingers, she hastened to her room, and locked the door to prevent all
intrusion. Taking off her bonnet, she drew the heavy shawl closely around
her shoulders and threw herself across the foot of the bed, burying her
face in her hands, lest the bare walls should prove witnesses of her agony.
Six hours later she lay there still with pale fingers pressed to burning,
dry eyelids.

CHAPTER XII

A SACRIFICE

Once more the labours of a twelvemonth had been exhibited at the Academy of
Design--some to be classed among things "that were not born to die;" others
to fall into nameless graves. Mr. Clifton was represented by an exquisite
OEnone, and on the same wall, in a massive oval frame, hung the first
finished production of his pupil. For months after Russell's departure she
sat before her easel, slowly filling up the outline sketched while his eyes
watched her. Application sometimes trenches so closely upon genius as to be
mistaken for it in its results, and where both are happily blended, the bud
of Art expands in immortal perfection. Electra spared no toil, and so it
came to pass that the faultless head of her idol excited intense and
universal admiration. In the catalogue it was briefly mentioned as "No.
17--a portrait; first effort of a young female